Maybe it was immature, childish, a refusal to start acting more responsibly and taking the first steps toward adulthood.
Or maybe it wasn’t that at all.
Maybe it was just who he was—mellow, content, interested in pursuing the kind of things money couldn’t buy.
All he knew for sure was that the one time he had compromised hadn’t gotten him anywhere. Hoping to bridge the growing rift between them, he’d planned to surprise Layla with the news that he’d accepted a sponsorship with a surf brand that had been after him for a while. Only before he could tell her, he’d received an anonymous text with a picture of Layla kissing Tommy, and they hadn’t spoken since.
Not like it mattered. As it turned out, a sponsorship mostly consisted of a pile of logo T-shirts and swim trunks and a handful of stickers to put on his boards. It wasn’t the payday it used to be. The exotic surf trips (which he didn’t really care about) and the monthly paychecks (which he did) were reserved for the top few on the professional circuit—an elite tribe to which Mateo didn’t belong.
Still, he wasn’t without options. And though he’d once sworn against the idea of relying on his good looks to make a living, confronted by the sight of his baby sister, her life dependent on the tubes that slow-dripped various liquids into her veins, he no longer had the luxury of thinking that way. Turned out, there were some things that only money could buy—like the best hospitals, doctors, and lifesaving treatments for Valentina. And it was up to Mateo to find a way to provide those things for her.
“How are we doing?” The door swung open behind him, and he turned to find the nurse briskly entering the room. “Anything I can get you?”
Mateo started to shush her, warn that his sister was sleeping, when Valentina’s eyes popped open and she nodded toward the chair by her bed.
“Can you hand me that magazine, please?” She shot a glance at Mateo and grinned triumphantly when the nurse promptly retrieved the tabloid and placed it onto her lap. “My brother thinks it’s too trashy for me—what do you think?” Valentina held it before her, the cover displaying a picture of Madison looking angelic beside Aster’s haggard mug shot—her hair tangled, face pale, as her fearful gaze stared into the camera.
The nurse took a moment to consider. “I think he’s probably right.” She nodded gravely as she set about checking Valentina’s blood pressure. Then, brightening, she said, “But that’s last week’s news. Have you heard the latest?”
Valentina’s eyes widened as she sat up a little straighter, and Mateo groaned in frustration. His little sister was ten going on sixteen, and like most girls her age, she idolized Madison—wanted to be just like her. Also, like most ten-year-olds, she hated being treated like a child. And while Mateo wanted to stop it—stop her illness, stop her preteen obsession with celebrities—he was powerless against both of those things.
Though there was something he could do—something he could no longer afford to avoid.
As Valentina and the nurse discussed the merits of their favorite Madison movies, Mateo pressed a kiss to his sister’s cheek and stepped outside the room. Hurrying down the hall, he pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolled through his long list of contacts, and sighed in relief when he saw he’d at least had the foresight not to delete the one number that just might change his run of bad luck.
“Hello,” he said, the moment the phone connected. “You told me to call if I ever changed my mind about your offer. Pretty sure I just did.”
SIX
HOTLINE BLING
LA Times reporter Trena Moretti stifled a yawn and lamped up the stereo on the Lexus she’d driven off the lot just a few weeks before. Having grown up in New York City only to spend the last several years in DC, she had no need for a car and considered it an unnecessary, climate-destroying convenience she would not indulge in. But LA was a car-conscious place that held fast to its motto: You are what you drive. If she wanted to fit in, she needed to at least make an attempt to do as the natives did.
Initially she had her heart set on a used Porsche, but when the salesperson guided her across the lot to the dark red Lexus coupe, it was love at first sight. And it wasn’t long before she’d become addicted to the thrill of driving the racy convertible.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, assessing her clear blue-green eyes, dark caramel complexion, and headful of wild bronze-tinged curls she’d long ago given up trying to tame. Maybe she still looked the same, but falling in love with a car proved she was dangerously close to becoming a full-blown Angeleno.
She pulled alongside the curb and drummed her thumbs on the steering wheel as she watched the girl juggle dueling Starbucks cups as she struggled to open the passenger door.
Trena leaned across the seat and propped the door open, flinching against the rush of heat she’d let in. “Priya?” She was surprised to find that the girl with her long black hair, smooth brown skin, and flashing dark eyes was even prettier in person than she was in her picture—a rarity in a Facetune-addicted town like LA.
“My research tells me you’re a chai latte fan.” Priya handed over the cup, and Trena grinned in return. Sure the move was ingratiating, but Trena was appreciative all the same. After buckling in, Priya turned to Trena to say, “Before we get started, I have to tell you what an honor this is. I’m a really big fan of your work.”
Trena gave a curt nod. Flattery was always nice, but she had no interest in being fawned over and needed to make that clear from the start.
“Tell me—what is it you hope to get out of this?” Trena checked her side and rearview mirrors and merged into oncoming traffic. At the charity auction, Priya had been the most aggressive bidder by far, pledging a surprising amount of money to ensure she won the “Day of Mentoring with Trena Moretti” prize. So surely she had some kind of agenda in mind.
Without hesitation, Priya replied, “An offer for a full-time position as your assistant would be a good start.”
Trena took a moment to process the words. While it didn’t exactly come as a surprise, she wasn’t convinced it would work. Her last assistant had quit after less than a month, citing extreme boredom in the exit interview, and Trena couldn’t say that she blamed her. Other than sending the girl on frequent chai runs, there really wasn’t much for her to do. Or rather, there was plenty for her to do, but Trena was too much of a control freak to actually delegate anything important.
She stopped at a red light and nodded toward the billboard ahead touting Madison Brooks’s upcoming movie. Madison might be missing, but her face was just about everywhere one looked—peering out from newspapers, magazines, TV screens, movie ads, and tasteless internet memes—like a specter haunting the city. In this particular case she wore her usual impenetrable expression, her face a mask of poised professionalism that gave nothing away.
“What do you think happened to her?” Trena nodded toward the sign and watched as Priya regarded it with a long, shrewd look.
“Wherever she is, I don’t believe for a second that Aster Amirpour was involved.” Priya glanced between the picture of Madison and Trena. “I think someone’s setting her up.”